It’s 5:30am and my mobile phone rings. I swear and mumble “hello” into the receiver. It is Yem my ex-flatmate from university calling from London. Some things haven’t changed. She still can’t figure out time zones.
We exchange updates and she comes up with a brilliant idea of us going on a road trip in the US next summer. In my sleep-deprived state, I stupidly agree.
Me: Are we going to do a Thelma and Louise?
(To my young friends, Thelma and Louise is the quintessential 90s road trip chick flick starring Geena Davis, Susan Sarandon and a very young delectable Brad Pitt. This was way before Britney’s Crossroads.)
Yem: Yeah, baby! Just you and me and Route 66!
Me: Where’s Route 66?
Yem: Texas?
(Nope! It’s from Chicago to Los Angeles, I think!)
Me: Do you know that there’s manslaughter and a car careening off a canyon involved in Thelma and Louise?
Yem: We’ll sort that out. Think about the Brad Pitts we’re going to meet on our road trip!
(R.I.G.H.T.)
Me: And you can’t drive! That means I’ll be doing the road tripping on my own!
Yem: Baby, it’s a MINOR TECHNICALITY.
There is more talk of meeting hillbillies, Norman Bates (think Psycho) and Yem’s inability to steer a motor vehicle.
Yes, my friends. I’ll be going on a road trip next year with a moron who can’t read a map and figure out time zones. Eep.
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